Since 1985, in various formats, SLANT -- an independent voice based in Richmond's Fan District -- has offered its readers original commentary on politics and popular culture, including cartoons and selected sundries. Warning: Sometimes that means satirical content. All rights are reserved.

Wednesday, January 22, 2014

Recollections in High Contrast

Snow
brings back memories. When we see the way snow makes the world around
us resemble a high contrast black and white photograph, we can't
help but connect to when we saw that distinctive look before. It's a look we don't see every year in Richmond, Virginia.

We remember
when a happy puppy first encountered snow. We remember snowball fights
and the raised-glass revelry in crowded Fan District bars. We remember
particular people we associate with yesteryear's snowy landscapes.

In
the winter of 1958-59 I had just turned 11. Buster was probably six or
seven months old when he saw his first snow. He was a white mutt,
supposedly he had some Spitz in him. Watching him rooting in the snow,
barking at it, rolling in it, was hilarious. He seemed to absolutely
love the smell and feel of snow.

Maybe the best snowball shot I ever
made was in the early '80s on West Grace Street. Rebby Sharp and I were
across the street from the Biograph Theatre, ducked down behind some
parked cars. It was after dark but I can't say how late it was. There
was a snowfall underway and it was sticking. Rebby and I were battling
some friends, who were in front of Don's Hot Nuts, next door to the
cinema, which I managed in those days.

Rebby and her band, the
Orthotonics, used to practice sometimes in the theater's large
auditorium during off hours. Some of Rebby's fans might not have known
it, but she wasn't a bad athlete; she pitched for the Biograph's women's softball team had a decent throwing arm.

When
some snowballs thumped off of Donald Cooper's peculiar bright green
candy business storefront, he came out on his porch to tell the snowball
fighters to scram. As everyone associated with the Biograph knew Cooper
to be an utter pest and the worst neighbor in the world, there was no
need for a plan.

Rebby threw first. My throw left with dispatch a
split second later. Both were superbly well put shots. When Cooper
extended his hand to block Rebby's incoming snowball it shattered to
shower him. Then my throw hit him square in the face ... ba-da-bing!

Cooper abruptly quit his stance and retired for the night.

The
best rides in the snow I can remember were at Libby Hill Park. In the
late-'70s and early-'80s I spent a lot of time up there. Used to play
Frisbee-golf in that park quite a bit. And, there were a few heavy snows
in that same period, which drew thrill-riders to what was then called
the Slide of Death.

We rode inflated inner tubes from the top of a
series of hills in the sloped park down to Main Street below. When the
snow was right those tubes went airborne at least a couple of times; the
fast ride was quite exhilarating.

There was a particular time
that stands out. Dennison Macdonald, who died in 1984, had hosed down
the first hill, so it would freeze in the frigid air and make the track
as slick and quick as greased lightning.

Eventually,
the run to the bottom got so fast you
had to be drunk to take the risk of riding, which wasn't a problem for
those of us standing around a fire-barrel passing a bottle of Bushmills
around between wild
rides.

Chuck Wrenn still lives across the
street from the launching point of the old Slide of Death. After a snowfall last year he and I laughed
about that night. We recalled the sight of Duck Baker pretending he was
going to ride a shaggy dog down the chute. Duck had us laughing so hard,
it's still funny some 35 years later.

Of course, you had to be there ... in the snow ... drinking Bushmills.